


The Rules Are the First to Go

by irisbleufic



Series: Girl In the War [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward First Times, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Awkwardness, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gotham City Police Department, Idiots in Love, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Making Jim Gordon Suffer, Mental Health Issues, Murder Husbands, Neurodiversity, Not Canon Compliant, POV Edward Nygma, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Power Dynamics, Protectiveness, Psychopaths In Love, Revenge, Riddles, Romantic Friendship, Season 2 AU, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 21:16:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11343336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “Do you really think that’s wise?” [Oswald] asked flippantly. “After all, you did kill your girlfriend.”“I don’t want to kill you, and—” Edward huffed, trailing his fingers down Oswald’s spine, as if the very idea were absurd “—you arenotmy girlfriend.”[Covers 2x08-11 with canon re-working and divergence.  For linearoundmythoughts, One-EyedBossman, and raven_aorla—with love.]





	The Rules Are the First to Go

This was a moment on which the memories of two previous moments hung, delicate as breath. Edward didn’t know why he should recall them in the face of an unidentified assailant. He fumbled in the spring-damp earth for his glasses, fingers closing on twigs and leaf-rot.

_Oswald Cobblepot striding into the GCPD, framed in blinding sunlight, back from the dead._

He struggled to find purchase as the blurred figure loomed nearer in the beam of his flashlight.

_Oswald, now the Penguin, telling Edward with prissy disapproval that he’s standing too close._

He finally snagged the glasses by one slightly bent arm, fumbling them onto his face in wonder.

Oswald—the _real_ Oswald in front of him, smelling of dried blood and fevered infection—sobbed raggedly. He dropped whatever he had raised above his head in readiness to strike, its metallic clang jarring beneath the whisper of branches.

“Oh my,” Edward gasped, filling his lungs even as Oswald fell to his knees. “Mr. Penguin?”

“Help me,” Oswald begged, all the hauteur of memory gone from his voice. “ _Please_.”

“Okay,” agreed Edward, swallowing hard, scrambling to retrieve the flashlight. He found the bone-saw that he’d brought along lying a few feet away, and then added, “Of course.”

“That’s not a very…practical thing to carry around,” Oswald remarked faintly as Edward propped him up with his right hand and shone the flashlight directly on Oswald’s bloodied shoulder. “I also don’t think you should…be holding both of those things in one…”

“Hand? Not ideally,” Edward agreed, keeping the saw away from Oswald’s injury, squinting at the tear the bullet had left in Oswald’s shirt. “Entrance directly below the clavicle, shoulder joint appears to be unaffected,” he went on, as if speaking for the M.E.’s dictaphone. “Sorry,” he muttered, wincing at Oswald’s groan as he pulled Oswald forward against him to examine Oswald’s back. “Oh _dear_. No point of exit. Bullet’s still there.”

“Can you get it out?” Oswald slurred, clutching at Edward's arms, swiftly losing consciousness.

“Yes,” Edward replied, “but not here. I need you to stay with me, Mr. Penguin. My car—”

“You patch people up in your _car_?” Oswald mumbled as Edward got an arm around him and helped him to his feet. “That doesn’t sound…terribly sanitary, if you ask…”

“Please stop trying to talk,” Edward begged, the panicked clamor of his thoughts demanding quiet. He had two corpses whose interment required finishing touches, and now a living, _injured_ body to top it all off. “You kind of…caught me at an awkward time.”

“Were those _your_ grapes and sandwiches?” asked Oswald, for a moment unnervingly lucid as they staggered along. “And wine? I appreciated the wine. That was a nice touch.”

“They weren’t for you,” Edward muttered, shining the flashlight far enough ahead that he could see the patches of white hellebores, blood-splattered by Oswald, and the dead hunter beyond.

“What, is this a…pastime of yours?” Oswald remarked snidely, his focus deteriorating again.

“Not until recently,” Edward admitted, bringing Oswald around the side of Kristen’s grave. He propped Oswald against the tree, made short work of stuffing the dishware back in the hamper, and shook out his green-and-navy tartan blanket. He wrapped Oswald in it, frowning. “You’re running a fever,” he said, pressing the back of his hand to Oswald’s cheek. “A high one.”

Oswald swallowed, clear eyes glittering in the harsh light, his head lolling back against the tree.

“So what you mean is that I’m dying?” he asked thickly. “Why don’t you just...bury me with…”

“No,” Edward said, shining his flashlight back on the hunter. “ _No_. Not you. You’re going—”

There was no sense in finishing the sentence, not when Oswald had abruptly lost consciousness.

Edward assessed the situation, none of which was encouraging. One, Oswald _might_ come a step closer to death if he spent much more time running a temperature over one hundred. Two, the bone-saw route was no longer practical, nor had it ever been.

In the end, he settled for shoving the valise containing Kristen’s remains as far into one corner of the rectangular pit as he could. It took another thirty minutes and a lot of flashlight repositioning, but he managed to dig the remaining L-shape around the valise another foot deeper. Awkward arranging and hacking with the shovel aside, the hunter _did_ fit.

Beginning to feel the strain of constant physical activity, Edward brushed off his gloved hands and shone the flashlight on Oswald. He twitched in his sleep, murmuring indistinctly.

“Wait right there,” Edward said, gathering up the hamper and shovel. He didn’t like the fact that he’d need to make two trips, but there was no way he could juggle Oswald’s weight in addition.

Once he’d deposited the shovel and hamper in his trunk, he made his way back through the underbrush with the flashlight. He gasped at the discovery that Oswald, hazy-eyed and seemingly afraid, had regained consciousness.

“What are you going to do with me?” he asked plaintively, head tipped back against the bark.

Edward flexed his free hand, steeling himself, and bent down to work an arm around Oswald.

“I’m taking you home,” he said, wrinkling his nose as he resumed close contact. “To fix you.”

“I don’t think anybody can do that,” said Oswald, and promptly passed out against Edward.

Carrying him the hundred yards or so through the underbrush was difficult. Edward stumbled no fewer than three times, horrified at the thought of what further damage he might have done. Bundling his blanket-wrapped burden into the back seat was easier said than done, not least because Oswald lashed out several times in his deepening delirium.

For the entirety of the drive home, Edward fussed with the hunter’s pocketknife, confiscated from the man’s vest after he’d hit him over the head, like a talisman. _I wish, I wish_.

 _Be careful what you wish for,_ Edward’s mirror-voice whispered—visual manifestation gone, sound not forgotten. _If you don't know why you’re saving him, then we’re in a pickle. The last time you took someone home, it didn’t end well. That was twenty-four hours ago._

“Shut up,” Edward hissed, waiting for the traffic light to turn green. “Nobody asked you.”

 _You’ll wish you’d listened before all’s said and done_ , Kristen chimed in. _You will_.

Edward slapped his steering wheel, startled at the sound of the horn. He laid off just as quickly, realizing the light had turned. He waved to the driver behind him, tires squealing as he took off.

On arrival in his usual side-street parking spot, Edward discovered that Oswald had bled through the blanket and onto the upholstery. He left the blanket behind to cover the damage, resolved to deal with it later. He hefted Oswald back into his arms, struggling to elbow the door shut.

Getting Oswald inside was made somewhat easier, at least, by quickly reaching the elevator.

“I need to get you out of these clothes,” he told Oswald, laying him out carefully on the bed. He removed Oswald’s shoes and socks, carrying them over to the nearest trash can.

After discarding his gloves, coat, flat cap, and wellies in the same bag—a sobering loss—Edward rolled up his sleeves and fetched the Hibiclens he kept under the sink. There was no guarantee that this scalding scrub-down from fingertips to elbows would be sufficient, not after dealing with bodies in various states of decomposition, but it was the best he could do.

On the bed, like clockwork, Oswald had begun to stir. He moaned quietly, kicking at the covers.

“Don’t do that, Mr. Penguin!” Edward called over his shoulder, hastily drying his hands on a fresh dish towel. “You should be moving as little as possible, the nature of your—”

“How _dare_ you bring me here!” shrieked Oswald, miserably, before falling silent again.

Edward fetched his trolley of medical supplies from the closet, thrilled that his haphazard stockpiling hadn’t been in vain. Giving Oswald a high-dose midazolam injection took priority over cutting him out of his clothes; he couldn’t afford to have Oswald regaining consciousness in the midst of what would be a _marginally_ chancy extraction.

Oswald’s skin beneath his clothing was so pale as to seem luminescent. His chest and belly, a streaked nightmare of blood and grime. His hips, legs, and thighs—Edward did his best not to linger, but a scrub-down with hot water and Hibiclens from neck to ankles made that impossible.

Objectively, effects of his mishealed leg injury notwithstanding, Oswald was eerily attractive.

Edward muttered apologies as he put a clean pair of boxers on him, fingers accidentally brushing at soft hair and softer flesh beneath. He smoothed both palms over Oswald’s hipbones, satisfied.

“Okie-doke,” he muttered, snapping on a pair of polyurethane gloves (wisest, he’d read, in the absence of latex-allergy information), prodding at the angry wound. “Showtime.”

The precision of Edward’s scalpel-work was not what concerned him. Rather, it was what he might find (or _not_ find, depending) beneath. The infection wasn’t so grim as to raise suspicion of sepsis, but extracting the bullet from Oswald’s inflamed tissue took several tries.

Hand shaking on the tongs, sweating profusely, Edward dropped it in a plastic cup and stared at it. He rattled it around for a few seconds before setting the cup aside, turning his attention on the urgent stitch-up job before him. Keflex was what he had on hand, so he administered the first injection directly to the site before suturing it shut.

The task of manhandling Oswald in order to bandage him felt surreal; Edward’s exhaustion had, at last, set in. Dressing him felt like an afterthought: too-long, worn-in flannel pajamas.

Edward tucked Oswald in, and then and undressed himself on auto-pilot, muddling his way into a second set of pajamas. He approached Oswald’s left side, sitting down on the edge of the mattress as he set his glasses aside on the nightstand.

Unbidden, his mind turned to the unanswered riddle he’d proposed as a toast at Kristen’s grave.

“I take you by night; by day, I take you back,” Edward yawned. “None suffer to have me, but do from my lack.” Dizzily, he touched Oswald’s cheek with intent to monitor his fever, but lingered in spite of himself. “What am I? Well, of course. _Sleep_ is technically correct.”

His last thought before tipping sideways against Oswald was that he really ought to take the sofa.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Oswald drifted, finding a cozy sense of warmth and his limbs pleasantly weighted.

It didn’t check out with the cold comfort of his circumstances in the trailer, didn’t make sense.

He opened his eyes a fraction, which was all he could manage, startled at the suggestion of a high ceiling and square-paneled windows to his left. Blinking at the grey, scarcely-lit sky beyond, he could only surmise that it might be early dawn.

 _What day is it?_ Oswald wondered, flexing his right hand beneath the covers. _Friday by now?_

There was someone lying next to him, someone whose head was sharing his pillow. Someone tucked into the curve of his left arm. Someone whose arm and leg were pinning him down.

 _This is a fever dream_ , Oswald thought, closing his eyes, giving over to peaceful oblivion.

The next thing he knew, the room was far too brightly lit and _someone_ was looming over him.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” said the beaming stranger, who wore glasses and whose idea of fashion sense appeared to include dark green sweaters, fine-check gingham shirts, and brown-tone striped ties.

Oswald abandoned his scrutiny, realization setting in. Not a fever dream. He’d been abducted.

“Where am I?” he demanded frantically, attempting to sit up. He was in an unfamiliar, low-lit apartment that undoubtedly belonged to his captor, whose idea of décor was _appalling_.

“Rapid movement and elevated heart rate are counterproductive to the healing process,” said the man seated beside Oswald on the mattress, his hand splayed nervously at Oswald’s shoulder.

Oswald could hardly parse the rapid-fire statement, but he’d gotten the gist and didn’t _care_. Much to his horror, the man was already reaching for something on a trolley pulled up next to the foot of the bed, and as soon as Oswald could discern what it was, he panicked.

He flinched away from the approaching needle, far too weak to escape. “No, _no_ —”

“Apologies in advance,” said the stranger, with distinct regret, sinking it in Oswald’s neck.

Screaming through the searing pain of the injection, Oswald felt himself relax almost instantly.

“Rest up, my feathered friend,” said the stranger, placidly. “We have a big night ahead of us.”

 _Big night indeed_ , thought Oswald, losing consciousness. _I’m going to kill you._

The next time he opened his eyes, both the lighting through the windows and the particular sounds of traffic and sirens from outside suggested it was early dusk. He blinked.

His captor was approaching from the kitchenette with what looked like a glass of water on a tray.

Oswald struggled into a sitting position, ready to spit venom. The water had a _straw_.

The man smiled at him, too patient for the circumstances, and Oswald felt a memory stir. He’d seen that face before. Something to do with Jim Gordon, _something_ …

He gasped—dismayed at the thought, momentarily disarmed—but fast recovered his wariness.

“You drugged me,” he said accusingly, wondering what the unnervingly familiar man would say.

“That was for your own benefit, Mr. Penguin,” said his captor, calmly and reasonably, proffering the water. “You have extensive injuries,” he added, pushing the tray at Oswald more insistently.

The longer Oswald studied the figure before him, the more he felt his defenses beginning to slip.

“I know you,” he said, memories of the woods filtering in alongside memories of further back.

“Ed,” said the man, too cheerfully. “Nygma.” After another beat in which Oswald, attempting to suppress his vague shock, said nothing, he went on. “We met once before. At the GCPD.”

Oswald nodded, tactfully attempting formulate his next crucial question. “You’re not a cop…?”

“Oh,” Edward said with startled, self-deprecating laughter. “No no _no_. I’m in forensics.”

While Oswald glanced down with growing unease at the tidy, extensive bandaging job visible at his chest, Edward inhaled noisily. Oswald glanced back up at him, startled.

“Do you believe in fate?” Edward asked, his tone conducive to anything _but_ reassurance.

Oswald glanced down at his lap, pushing at the covers. He was in a pair of plaid pajamas at least two sizes too big for him. The shirt hung unbuttoned. He shifted, realizing the underwear on him didn’t feel anything like his own. He’d been transported here, _undressed_ —

“Where are my clothes?” he demanded, wishing the tray and its syringes were within reach.

“Oh, I threw them away,” replied Edward, apologetic, but flatly adamant. “They smelled.”

Insulted beyond measure, but oddly reassured that Edward hadn’t taken any liberties, Oswald decided that it was time to leave. He thought about Gabriel and what was left of his crew; they had surely given him up for dead. Furious, he attempted to get out of bed.

“Oh no,” said Edward, setting the tray hastily aside on the high chest of drawers. “Oh _my_.” He took hold of Oswald’s arms. “I'm afraid, sir, that you can’t leave.”

Oswald grappled with Edward’s wrists. “If you sedate me again, I _swear_ I will—”

Edward grabbed Oswald’s left hand with surprising strength, twisting it to one side. He gestured forcefully with his right, eyes gone hard enough to startle Oswald into momentary silence.

“Sir,” he explained harshly, “you are a _wanted man_. You can try and run, but with your condition, you’ll get about three blocks. I’m afraid that you’re stuck here until you recover.”

Oswald glared at him in defiance, grudgingly deflated. He huffed in Edward’s face, so close that he could feel the warmth of Edward’s breath in turn. Shaking Edward off, he got back into bed of his own accord, groaning at the sudden, searing pain in his shoulder.

Edward fetched the tray off the dresser, smug at having won, patronizingly offering the glass.

“Now, drink up. It’s just water. Dehydration is common after prolonged outdoor exposure.”

Oswald shoved the tray back at him, nonetheless mindful not to send the glass flying in his face. He watched Edward, looking strangely dejected, take it back to the sink. He _wondered_.

“What do you want from me?” Oswald asked, experiencing a moment of doubtful contrition.

Edward seemed to perk up, indulging more of that nervous, irritatingly endearing laughter.

“Remember I had mentioned fate?” he asked, regaining some semblance of serious composure when he realized Oswald was glowering at him. “Recently, I’ve been going through a sort of...change,” he said slowly, chin tipped low as he studied the floor, before waxing immediately flippant again. “What kind of change, you ask?”

Oswald shook his head in disbelief, uneasy at the unknown direction in which this was heading.

“I didn’t,” he insisted, about to indulge in a long-overdue sarcastic tirade. “In fact, I—”

“I've started murdering people,” Edward blurted, his expression gone taut and expectant.

 _That explains the body and the suitcase I saw in the woods_ , Oswald thought, nonetheless finding himself speechless. Creepily obsessive, lacking in social boundaries, and medically competent, yes—but part of him could not _fathom_ Edward Nygma as a serial killer.

Edward doubled over, his manic laughter radiating sheer relief. He supported himself on the foot-railing of the bed with his right hand, tapping his left over his heart as if to calm himself.

“ _Wow_ , that is _thrilling_ to say out loud,” he gushed, straightening up again, facing Oswald head-on. He gestured emphatically, as if empowered by the confession alone.

For the first time, Oswald wondered if he’d underestimated Edward’s inherent capabilities.

“How many people?” he asked, narrowing his eyes, eagerly awaiting Edward’s response.

Edward clasped his hands deliberately in front of him, _beyond_ pleased with himself.

“Three in total. Two of them, I didn’t really care for. But one was my girlfriend, Miss Kringle.”

Oswald, wracked with laughter, looked up at him again. He shook his head, not even sure what to say, struck by the surreal finality of his circumstances. Just his luck, to have been reeled in, a sitting duck, by the most unlikely serial killer in all of Gotham.

“She was the love of my life,” said Edward, curiously expressionless, as if clinging to a script.

Oswald let his head fall back against the metal bedframe. By this stage, he didn’t give a fuck.

“If you're planning on killing me, could you get on with it?” he asked, relishing Edward’s perplexed expression. “At this point, it would come as a welcome relief.”

Edward, waving his hands in front of him, came over to sit next to Oswald on the mattress.

“Oh, heavens! No no no. No no _no_ no no,” he said, leaning so close that Oswald was startled by the unintentional intimacy of it. “I have no ill intentions toward you.”

“Then what _are_ your intentions?” Oswald demanded, approaching the end of his tether.

“I need advice, Mr. Penguin,” said Edward, so earnest and childlike in his approach that Oswald was impressed. “These murders...changed me,” he confided, giggling, almost girlish. “And, like the butterfly, I've come to realize that I _cannot_ be a caterpillar once again.”

 _No wonder you killed your girlfriend_ , Oswald thought. _You had no business being with a woman in the first place._ He felt such raw pity at the depth of Edward’s repression that it was a miracle Edward hadn’t perceived it. Then again…

“And you’re one of the city’s most notorious killers,” Edward went on, alight with anticipation. “I brought you here, in part, because...I was hoping you could guide me on this new path.”

Oswald, chuckling in disbelief, attempted to speak, but words failed him. “Listen, friend—”

“ _Ed_ ,” Edward insisted, his obliviousness to Oswald’s manner confirming every suspicion.

Oswald waved a hand at him, getting out of bed, hobbling to the foot-railing to support himself.

“Whatever,” he said, making his painstaking way past the long table that served as the kitchen center island. He approached the square-paneled window, keenly aware of the helicopter search-lights that flashed through, watching Edward’s concerned, peripheral approach. “My empire is in ruins,” he said as the tightness in his chest unraveled, surrendering to the stinging in his eyes. “I’m a wanted man with no friends. And my mother, the one person I swore to protect, is dead because of my weakness,” he added, inhaling sharply through his tears. “Believe me when I tell you that this path you’re on leads to nothing but destruction and pain.”

Edward just stood there—tight-lipped, uncertain of what to say—uselessly wringing his hands.

“ _So_ ,” concluded Oswald, slapping the metal pole that he’d been using for support, pointing toward the door. “Wanted or not, I'm leaving,” he said firmly, aware as he turned to go that Edward had taken to leaning dejectedly against the foot-railing of the bed.

Two steps forward, and the floor—breath-stealing, excruciating impact—rushed up to meet him.

“Oh my,” murmured Edward, lamenting, as Oswald blacked out with a sense of hollow relief.

The third time Oswald opened his eyes, he was back in Edward’s bed. Right where he’d started.

The quality of the light from outside suggested dusk, which could only mean that he’d been out for close to a full twenty-four hours this time. Had Edward drugged him again?

Oswald sat bolt upright at the sound of whimpering and struggling. He was uncertain of what to make of the gunny-sacked figure duct-taped to a chair set up to face the foot of the bed.

Edward rose from behind the chair, presenting his captive to Oswald with a flourish. “Ta-da!”

Oswald couldn’t fathom what was happening, didn’t even want to _know_. “Who’s that?”

“This is Mr. Leonard,” said Edward, clapping in delight, gesturing at the back of Leonard’s head. “You were talking in your sleep last night about Galavan killing your mother.”

“I was?” asked Oswald, in profound embarrassment. The last thing he needed was to be giving away pieces of compromising criminal and personal information in his sleep.

“Yes,” said Edward, pleased, setting his hands on Leonard’s head. “Mr. Leonard works for Galavan. _Oh_.” He made a clarifying gesture. “Before he was arrested, of course.”

“Arrested?” Oswald echoed, sitting up in shock. He must _really_ have been out for a while.

“Detective Gordon arrested Galavan for kidnapping Mayor James,” Edward said, gesturing his way through the mechanical, yet gleeful explanation. “He’s in Blackgate.”

Oswald’s mind spun; he couldn’t parse Edward’s revelations quickly enough. “ _Huh_.”

“Oh,” Edward sighed, visibly discouraged at Oswald’s reaction. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“It doesn't matter anymore,” Oswald said, deciding his analysis was futile. “Why is he here?”

Edward broke back into a smile that was at least partly forced. “He was a gift for you.”

Oswald gave up, amused in spite of himself, nodding at Edward’s whimpering quarry.

“And what exactly am I supposed to _do_ with a Leonard?” he asked wearily.

“Kill him!” Edward said, pressing against the back of Leonard’s sack-covered head. “I thought it might be nice to get some retribution for your mother's death. That it might—” he came over to the side of the bed, removing a switchblade from his pocket “—cheer you up a little.” He flicked the blade open and turned it toward himself, offering Oswald the handle. “No?”

Resigned, Oswald took the knife. He looked at it, and then let his gaze drift over to Leonard.

Getting up put more strain on his leg than Oswald would have liked for the wasteful action he was about to take, but Edward required a cruel brand of lesson, and he needed to learn it _fast_. He limped over to stand in front of Leonard.

Edward was hovering at his elbow with his hands _literally_ clasped together in anticipation.

Oswald regarded Leonard dispassionately. For an instant, he was tempted to slit the man’s throat.

“I’m _done_ ,” he said instead, glaring at Edward as he dropped the knife on the floor. “I need some rest, and then I’m leaving Gotham forever.”

Shuffling back to bed, burrowing under the covers, he listened to Edward’s downcast monologue. Or maybe it was addressed to Leonard, or to Oswald after all. Or to no one.

“I thought he really would like you,” said Edward, softly. There was the sound of him dragging the chair toward the storage closet, which drowned out Leonard’s babbling. “What to do now?”

Oswald closed his eyes, burying his face in the pillow. It smelled like Edward as much as it smelled like him. He started to hum, desperate for a means to fall asleep. He would have pleaded for another injection if it wouldn’t have involved getting Edward’s attention.

Judging by how the sound of Edward’s dragging abruptly ceased, perhaps he’d done just that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

For the first time since their ordeal had begun, Edward gave in to the temptation in his bathroom cabinet. Sheer adrenaline, bolstered by a handful of stolen hours dozing at Oswald’s side, had gotten him through the first several days. Now, he was desperate.

By hook or by crook, by the time Oswald woke, he was _determined_ to find that record.

Edward’s collection, even in immaculate order, didn’t easily yield up its secrets. He couldn’t for the life of him remember the artist’s name, although he _was_ certain it was one of the LPs he’d grudgingly acquired when his parents’ assets had been liquidated. Midway through college at the time, he’d listened to the dusty lot one at a time. For whatever reason, he’d kept a few.

Several hours later, just past midnight, he located the object of his quest in a stack of several that he’d shoved behind his ancient metal filing-cabinets out of spite. He brushed off the slipcase, tipping the record into his hand. He took it over to the turntable and placed it with precision.

Next, he made his way over to the bed—Oswald’s left side this time, as he’d done after tending to Oswald’s injury—and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Oswald looked peaceful in his sleep.

“I have another surprise,” Edward whispered, settling beside him, once more content to lie overtop of the covers. “When we wake up,” he promised, closing his eyes. “I’ll sing for you.”

When Edward opened his eyes, the room was flooded in mid-morning sunshine, and Oswald was still sound asleep. He sat up as gingerly as he could, fascinated by the shadows Oswald’s lashes cast on his faintly-freckled cheeks.

 _Like a tomb effigy or a sleeping prince_ , Kristen hissed. _Something out of a story._

 _A story we don’t belong in_ , his mirror-voice supplied ruefully. _We never did_.

“You don’t know anything,” Edward muttered under his breath, rising, making his way over to the record player. He set the track to crooning, satisfied that the volume wasn’t too egregious.

_The fire has gone out,  
wet from snow above—_

By the time he made it to the keyboard, he had to struggle to find his fingering and his breath.

_—but nothing will warm me more  
than my, my mother's love._

_I light another candle,  
dry the tears from my face—_

As Edward tentatively sang along, Oswald’s furtive sniffling preceded his tetchy interruption.

“Why are you playing this song? It’s Sunday morning. You’ll wake the whole building.”

Edward stopped playing and turned in his seat, overcome at the sight. Oswald, haloed in sunshine, was even more beautiful awake. Past images flooded Edward’s mind.

“I can bring tears to your eyes and resurrect the dead. I form in an instant and last a lifetime,” he said, chin tilted, smiling in his first conscious, giddily nervous attempt at flirting. “What am I?”

“A memory,” replied Oswald, his jaw tightening, immediately stand-offish. “So what?”

“You were humming this under your covers,” Edward said. “I figure it has meaning for you.”

Unexpectedly, Oswald’s expression softened. He chuckled, sniffled again, and sat up straight.

“Every night when I was young, my mother would sing that song to me when I was going to bed.”

Edward got up, too compelled to remain at the keyboard. He didn’t stop until he was seated at Oswald’s side, desperately wishing he hadn’t begun to notice Oswald was in need of a wash.

“And, every time, she would tell me...” Oswald choked on a sob, meeting Edward’s questioning gaze. “Oswald, don’t listen to the other children. You’re handsome and clever, and someday you will be a great man,” he continued, smiling through his tears. “She said that every time.”

 _He is handsome, isn't he?_ needled his mirror-voice. _So handsome you could just—_

 _Rude!_ Kristen interjected. _And anyway, that didn't work out so hot for him last time._

It took all of Edward’s willpower not to give in, not to scream at them to leave him alone. He focused on Oswald’s words, on the way his eyes shone when they caught the sunlight.

“That’s all I have left now,” Oswald continued, his voice breaking on a bitter sob. “Memories. And they’re like daggers in my heart.”

“Not forever,” Edward said, struck with inspiration fetching a pair of glasses off the nightstand. “These were Miss Kringle’s. It’s all I have left to remember her by. But when I look at these, I don't feel sadness anymore—”

 _It’s been seventy-two hours!_ Kristen railed. _You do realize that means you never had anything to be sad about, right? We dated for all of, what, three weeks? We didn’t even get completely naked, and then you told me you killed my ex. And when it turned out I didn’t like that, you killed me, too. Grow up. You heard the man. If you’re going to kill him, just kill—_

“I feel gratitude,” Edward continued, insistently ignoring her. “And do you know why?”

“No,” said Oswald, snippily. “And I don’t care. This little visit is over.” He climbed out of bed while Edward continued to cradle the glasses, leaning with palms braced on the mattress. “I will just simply bid you _adieu_ ,” he continued, heading toward the center of the room.

“Mr. Penguin,” Edward sighed, putting the glasses back, racing to head Oswald off at the center island. “For some men, love is a source of strength,” he insisted, setting himself right in Oswald’s path. “But for you and I, it will always be our most crippling weakness.”

 _Weakness for what's right in front of you_ , taunted his mirror-voice, filling the void behind Edward’s eyes. _Weakness so great Miss Kringle will seem like a drop in the ocean._

“Move aside, _Ed_ ,” Oswald warned, calling Edward by his name for the first time ever.

Edward stepped right into Oswald’s space in spite of his better judgment, memory be damned.

“We are better off unencumbered,” he said emphatically, sure he’d rendered the sentiment wrong.

 _Unencumbered like you are right now?_ Kristen asked. _With this pretty, bitchy thing in your home and in your bed? Helpless and dependent, spurning your generosity at every turn?_

Oswald inhaled dramatically, as if he’d heard her, all fierce and regal fury. “What did you say?”

“You said it yourself,” Edward spat, furious at the dead for intruding. “Your mother is dead because of your weakness. But what you need to realize is that your weakness was _her_.”

Oswald swiped the switchblade off the counter with right hand and seized Edward’s collar with his left, shoving the blade up against Edward’s neck so fast that it stole Edward’s breath. They were pressed together close as lovers, Oswald’s strength so fierce it was _stunning_.

“My mother was a _saint_!” Oswald seethed. “The only person who truly cared about me, and now she’s gone!” To Edward’s shock, he began to sob afresh. “And I have nothing left!”

Edward shook as Oswald pressed the blade-edge harder into his neck, falling and falling and _falling_ for the fret and fire in front of him. This magnificence would be his ruin.

“A man with nothing that he loves is a man that cannot be bargained,” he said with his best attempt at conviction. “A man that cannot be betrayed. A man who answers to _no one_ but himself. And _that_ is the man that I see before me,” he continued, enthralled at the immediate softening in Oswald’s features; even as Oswald leaned harder into him, the knife’s pressure eased off by degrees. “A _free_ man.”

 _Free to leave you, Eddie,_ said his mirror-voice. _Free to leave you and never look back._

Sobbing, Oswald glanced down at knife as if he couldn’t believe what he’d done. He regarded his hand fisted in Edward’s sweater, lowering the knife even as he curled improbably closer.

Trembling, Edward took the opportunity to gently take it from Oswald’s hand and click it shut.

 _Then hold him,_ Kristen said. _Hold him close, kiss him deep, and wring his lovely neck._

“Breakfast?” asked Edward, shakily, setting the knife aside as he ignored her. “Why don’t I make us some eggs? Toast and bacon? That ought to ground you. Afterward, I’m afraid I'll have to change your dressings, because they’ve gotten a little...” He made a hand-waving gesture, biting back the urge to tell Oswald he needed a bath. “You have an infection. I need to administer your next Keflex injection so that the fever won't get worse.”

Oswald made a face, swaying as he finally, _finally_ released Edward’s collar from his grasp.

“At least this time you _asked_ ,” he said prissily, struggling to draw breath through the pain revealed by his ebbing adrenaline. “What if I...”

Edward reached to steady Oswald with cautious hands at Oswald's hips, watching him swallow.

“What were you saying?” Edward asked, mesmerized by the way Oswald swayed into him again.

“What if I wanted to get that over with first?” said Oswald, hazy-eyed and bafflingly contrite.

Unthinking, Edward slid his arms around Oswald's waist, bracing him. “That's... _ah_ , okay.”

“That would require getting me back to the bed, Edward,” Oswald snapped with impatience.

 _Back to the bed_ , Edward thought, catching himself before he swayed in turn. _Oh_.

Oswald went, perfectly docile, when Edward turned him around and helped him limp over to hop up on the mattress. He sat stiffly except for the slight swing of his ankles, letting Edward divest him of the open pajama shirt.

Flustered, Edward searched the medical trolley for his bandage shears. For crying out loud, he was _hard_ , and it had taken so relatively little to get him there. It was mortifying.

“It’s okay,” said Oswald, voice low, cutting through Edward's thoughts. “You can use the knife.”

Edward cleared his throat just as his fingers scrabbled across the shears and closed around them.

“That would be unsanitary,” he said, snipping through Oswald’s bandages with ruthless efficiency.

“Judging by the way you keep wrinkling your nose, all of me is unsanitary,” Oswald sneered.

Edward glanced up at him, setting aside the shears, snapping on a pair of polyurethane gloves.

“I'm going to give you a shot,” he said evenly, tired of Oswald's nonsense. “Once I do that, the bathroom is right over there. I want you to take a shower while I make breakfast. _Please_. Then, once you’re done, I’ll bandage you back up, and we’ll eat.”

Oswald made a face that was so disturbingly, enticingly close to a pout that Edward shivered.

“Only if you’ll sing for me again,” he said, slipping off the mattress and into Edward's space.

“I’ll sing anything you _want_ as long as you get tidied up,” Edward sighed, spinning Oswald around by the shoulders, maneuvering him toward the bathroom. “On second thought, I’ll do the shot once you’re squeaky clean. Go.”

He spent the next twenty-five minutes letting the bubbling of bacon-grease and the sizzling of eggs distract him from the discomfort of his fading erection, trying not to dwell on how far out of control the situation had spun. He let the toast brown for a few seconds in the grease, dashing to pull some cartons of leftover Chinese out of the fridge as an afterthought.

It was no use; setting the table and arranging food on plates did little to distract him. He wanted Oswald clean and sweet-smelling against his sheets, he _wanted_ —

“I don’t like it when you stick me with needles, so make it quick,” Oswald said irritably, wandering in wearing nothing but Edward's pajama bottoms and a towel around his neck.

Edward nodded guiltily, ran to the sink, peeled off the grease-splashed gloves, and washed his hands. He found Oswald already seated on the bed, towel discarded on the floor. He prodded the puffy sutures with distaste, but at least the wound wasn't oozing. He fetched the syringe with perfunctory haste, uncapping it in the knowledge that Oswald was watching his every move.

“I ought to thank you for saving my life,” said Oswald, the non-sequitur decidedly flirtatious.

“You’re welcome,” replied Edward, sinking the needle before he gave in to the urge to kiss him.

Re-bandaged and bundled into a fresh pajama shirt, Oswald went willingly to the side table and even let Edward pull out a chair for him. He watched with interest as Edward went over to the counter, tended to the overdue French press, and brought them each back a cup of coffee.

“Coffee in a beaker,” he said, sipping it with a sigh. “A beaker with a _handle_ , even.”

Edward nodded, pleased, finding it hopelessly endearing that Oswald's hair was still a disaster.

“And _these_ ,” he said, picking up a pair of the as-yet unused chopsticks, tapping them across the several empty wine bottles he'd included in the table setting, “are for percussion.”

Two rousing renditions of _My Mother's Love_ later, they’d eaten only around a third of what was on their plates, and they were both laughing so hard that more caffeine seemed like the only solution. Edward rounded off the chorus while Oswald dropped out to sip at his coffee, rapidly drumming the interior of his mostly-empty beaker for a finale.

The look Oswald gave him over the rim of his beaker was enough to hush him, to still his hand.

“What happened to that gentleman you had tied up earlier?” he asked, smile deviously poised.

Edward felt each word like a visceral thrill, wondering if he hadn't misread Oswald after all.

“Galavan’s lackey?” he said, hands beneath his chin, chopsticks askance. “Why do you ask?”

Oswald’s toe brushed Edward’s sock-covered instep: electrifyingly brief, perhaps accidental.

Edward got up, elated when Oswald followed him to the closet of his own accord. He opened the door, chuckling as they set eyes on an eternally mumbling and whimpering Mr. Leonard.

“My mother always said a party’s not a party without entertainment,” said Oswald, daring him.

Edward dragged the chair back out into the open, his heart-rate practically hitting the ceiling.

“Then get my knife and use it,” he said, daring Oswald right back, “because I want to watch.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Oswald yawned and nuzzled his way deeper into the pillow, not quite ready to be awake.

He’d lost consciousness again, that much he could remember, and Edward had caught him before the bloody switchblade had even slipped from his hand. So he’d been carried to bed for the fourth or fifth time in as many days, by now a minor indignity.

Beside him, a familiar source of constant, heady warmth shifted and yawned in answer.

Oswald rolled onto his left side, peering at Edward through the scant, grey light of dawn.

“Why do you keep dozing off beside me?” he asked. “When you bother to sleep at all?”

“I’m concerned about you,” Edward said, picking self-consciously at his clean, ratty old green tee. It was a puzzling departure from his usual, question mark and all. “And I find you...”

“I _know_ how you find me,” Oswald replied reproachfully. “It was rather obvious yesterday. I kept hinting that I’d noticed, but all you really wanted was a murder lesson.”

“No, _no_ ,” Edward protested, grabbing Oswald’s hand, drawing it against his chest. “That’s not all. I’d hoped it wasn’t _too_ obvious. I’ve already been forward enough.”

“We have a body to dispose of,” Oswald reminded him, rubbing an absent circle over Edward’s sternum with his index and middle fingers. “I assume you stuck it in the closet. You smell much better than _you_ did yesterday, too, so I can only assume you showered last night after I passed out from the effort of killing Mr. Leonard for your viewing pleasure. And you haven’t been to work in _how_ many days?”

“Well, I technically took off more than half of Thursday once I located where I hid Miss Kringle’s body from myself at the GCPD,” Edward began to ramble, his grasp on Oswald’s hand tightening. “That night is when I found you. I called in sick Friday so I could stay at home and monitor you through the first twenty-four hours. And then it was the weekend. Monday morning, here we are,” he sighed. “I’ll need to leave soon.”

“Well, then,” said Oswald, decisively, fisting his hand in Edward’s shirt. He rolled onto his back and tugged a startled Edward along with him. “Let’s make the most of it,” he suggested, pressing his mouth against Edward’s ear. “I know you want this. I want it, too.”

“You’re still healing,” Edward protested, squirming restlessly against Oswald even as he attempted to keep his weight off Oswald’s shoulder. “You’ll be laid up here for longer.”

“I don’t care,” Oswald insisted, shoving Edward’s pajama bottoms down. “We’ll make it work.”

“Oh my,” Edward breathed, his eyes slipping shut, helping Oswald push them down past his knees. “Wait,” he said, opening his eyes as he kicked free of them. “I don’t want to hurt—”

“Ed, shut up,” Oswald said, pulling Edward back against him with a sigh. Even through a single remaining layer of fabric, the heat of Edward’s skin and the press of his erection against Oswald’s felt like heaven. He slid his hands up Edward’s shirt, caressing his back.

“Can I,” Edward panted, jerking against Oswald as Oswald’s hands slid down to cup his buttocks, “ _can_ I…take yours off, too?” He swore, burying his face in the pillow.

Oswald struggled to get his breath under control, tapping Edward’s hip with his palm.

“Yes, what do you think?” he retorted. “Lift up. Help me get out of them, I can’t…”

Edward scrambled down the bed, tugging his old pajama bottoms down and off Oswald’s hips with clumsy enthusiasm. He squinted, glasses left God-knew-where the night before, running his hands up Oswald’s legs from ankles to thighs. He molded his palms to Oswald’s hipbones.

“Can I…” His breath hitched as he tugged his shirt off, tossing it over the side of the bed. He lay down again, covering Oswald’s body with his own. He gasped, the sound ecstatic.

Oswald wrapped his arms around Edward’s shoulders, parting his thighs to let Edward settle between them. He regretted the bandages covering most of his chest, but he was too far gone to care about discarding the unbuttoned pajama shirt. He could tell that Edward, moaning low and breathy in Oswald’s ear as they moved against each other, was struggling to restrain himself.

Oswald pressed his mouth against Edward’s flushed cheek, parting his lips, not quite a kiss.

“Stop trying so hard,” he whispered, stroking Edward’s hair. “You were _marvelous_.”

“Oh dear,” Edward whimpered, breathing harshly against Oswald’s temple. “ _Oh_ —!”

Increasingly, _desperately_ aroused, Oswald held him until he’d stopped shaking, fascinated at how the slick, sudden pulses of heat felt between them. He had no previous experience with intimacy, and he was willing to bet that Edward didn’t have much, either.

“Roll over,” he instructed Edward, finding him pliant, “my shoulder’s sore. And I want…”

Hazy-eyed and trembling, Edward rolled over and helped Oswald settle in to straddle him.

“Like this?” he asked, stroking up and down Oswald’s thighs. “What do you want me to do?”

Oswald ran his hands over Edward’s chest, intent on the bitten-off sound Edward made when he tweaked one nipple after the other. He grazed his fingernails along Edward’s collarbones, leaving faint red trails that vanished in seconds. He rubbed himself against Edward’s belly, too entranced to care about whether making the mess worse would affect his bandages.

“Touch me,” he sighed, letting himself curl forward, guiding Edward’s hands to his erection.

“I’d like that,” Edward murmured, closing Oswald in his sure, steady grasp. “I like _this_.”

“Yes,” Oswald agreed breathlessly, pushing his hips forward into Edward’s touch. “So do I.”

Without warning, Edward leaned up and bit at Oswald’s earlobe, breath hot against stung flesh.

“I loved watching you kill Leonard,” he said, tone low and fiercely admiring, even possessive.

“Ed, oh,” Oswald whimpered, coming messily over Edward’s hands and belly. “ _Ed_.” He shuddered and shuddered, thighs clamped tight against Edward’s hips. “That was…”

“Yes,” Edward sighed, wiping his hands on the sheets before stroking Oswald’s sides. “Mr. Penguin, if I—”

“Please,” Oswald said, with a hint of laughter, collapsing bonelessly against him. “Oswald.”

“ _Oswald_ ,” Edward murmured, reverently brushing Oswald’s cheek. “Can I kiss you?”

Oswald froze, catching Edward’s hand over the evidence he’d only _now_ begun to blush.

“Do you really think that’s wise?” he asked flippantly. “After all, you did kill your girlfriend.”

“I don’t want to kill you, and—” Edward huffed, trailing his fingers down Oswald’s spine, as if the very idea were absurd “—you are _not_ my girlfriend.”

“No, but at this point we’re…not exactly typical roommates,” Oswald said. “Whatever we are.”

“What are the kids calling it these days?” mused Edward, absently. “Friends with benefits?”

“Ed, we _are_ the kids,” Oswald explained, sitting up. “The ones who call it that, anyway.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Edward, gazing earnestly up at Oswald. “Can I _please_?”

Overcome with a sudden rush of fondness, or whatever the fuck it was that endorphins were well-documented to cause in the brain, Oswald slumped forward again and kissed him. Edward tasted like faint traces of the spearmint toothpaste he’d encountered in the bathroom.

“I could call in sick again,” Edward mumbled against Oswald’s mouth, licking Oswald’s lower lip before nibbling at it, making Oswald shiver. “I could—” he exhaled “—make love to you all day.”

Oswald flushed hot from head to toe, deepening the kiss before he even understood _why_.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he mumbled, hating himself, meaning it more ways than one.

“Maybe not,” Edward sighed, framing Oswald’s face, admiring Oswald’s kiss-stung lips at close range. “It’s not like I got far with Miss Kringle. I wanted to prove—Oswald, I _am_ a gentleman.”

Oswald raised his eyebrows, trailing a fingertip from Edward’s temple down to his raspy cheek.

“I’ll bet you are,” he said, not in the mood to argue. “You had better go shave. Let me sleep.”

Edward kissed him, chaste and lingering, before situating Oswald on his back and getting up.

“Unless there’s a crime scene, I’m home by six,” he said, cleaning Oswald off with wipes he’d fetched from the medical trolley. “I’ll take Mr. Leonard with me—easy disposal at work, sodium hydroxide—and leave my number on the table. Start taking the oral antibiotics,” he added once he’d tucked Oswald in and kissed his forehead. “Luckily, we missed your bandages.”

 _This is terrible_ , Oswald thought, drifting off, mind at war with the warmth in his belly.

He woke up what felt like a short time later, only to consult the clock on the dresser and find that over two hours had passed. Dragging himself out of bed, he found that walking to the bathroom wasn’t as much of a chore as he would have expected after what he and Edward had done earlier.

God, after what they’d done. Oswald stared at his reflection in Edward’s rust-cornered mirror as he let the pajama shirt fall to the floor, still naked from the waist down. Even in questionable condition, with his hair an absolute _fright_ , he’d managed a successful seduction.

Hesitant to interfere with bandages that were, as Edward had pointed out, somehow still miraculously _clean_ , Oswald made the best of a thorough sponge bath. Washing only his hair under the shower spray resulted in slight wetting of the bandages across his back.

It felt good to stand before a mirror and reconstruct what he’d let get out of hand. He didn’t have make-up at his disposal, but that felt trivial after the discovery that Edward’s pomade worked beautifully on damp hair. Now, he _recognized_ himself. That was a start.

Afterward, Oswald went to the dresser and dug out a fresh pair of pajamas and a green-and-navy tartan robe that reminded him of the picnic blanket Edward had wrapped him in. Irritated at the pressure in his bladder, he went back to the bathroom. Which was fine until he tried to flush, a process involving more fiddling with the handle than he would have liked. It wouldn’t work.

 _Nobody likes a bad house-guest_ , he thought, stalking back out to fetch Edward’s cordless land-line. He punched Edward’s cell number into the keypad and flopped down on the bed.

“Hey,” Edward said, picking up on the second ring. “Recognized the number. You doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Oswald, peevishly, “but your toilet’s doing that…that thing it does. The water pressure problem or whatever. You’re the expert. Any advice?”

“You’re not holding it down long enough,” Edward explained mildly, shuffling papers in the background. “Try that. Did you take your medication?”

“You said to take it with food,” Oswald said, turning the side of his face into the pillow. “Now I’m all cleaned up, because heaven knows you like _that_ , I’m going to find some leftovers.”

Edward was unusually quiet for several seconds, and then took an alluringly tremulous breath.

“Tonight,” he said, aiming for conversational and failing _miserably_ , “I’m going to…”

“Can’t wait to find out what’s behind that ellipsis,” said Oswald, smugly. “Don’t work too hard.”

“No,” Edward agreed, his breathing still off-kilter. “No, I won’t,” he said quickly, and hung up.

 _You don’t know what you’re doing_ , Oswald told himself. _Any more than Ed._

Oswald popped a pill from the bottle on the center island in his mouth, wandering over to the refrigerator.

Edward’s was unusual, glass-fronted like the ones you usually saw in medical settings. Feeling only marginally guilty, he drank straight from the carton of orange juice to wash down the pill. He pulled out the cellophane-wrapped plate containing the eggs they hadn’t finished yesterday, plus the carton that he knew had crispy chicken dumplings in it.

Forty minutes after eating while he watched some lamentably mundane news reports made palatable by Valerie Vale’s wry sense of humor, Oswald was briefly, violently ill. He doubted it was the food, although the several-days-old dim sum was a possibility.

Reeling back from the toilet, pressing his cheek against the cold tile of Edward’s bathroom wall, he was inclined to blame the medication. He wiped his mouth on a fistful of toilet paper and chucked it in the bowl.

He realized only too late that he hadn’t completed the _first_ failed flush of earlier.

Drained, but feeling much better—and, inexplicably, hungrier than ever—Oswald wobbled to his feet and went to fetch the phone off the bed. He walked back to the bathroom, tried jiggling the handle _and_ holding it down several times in succession. No dice. He hit redial.

“Yes?” Edward answered after about four or five rings, sounding huffy and badly distracted.

“You have the worst-behaved plumbing I’ve ever met,” Oswald informed him with annoyance.

“ _Again_?” asked Edward, in put-out disbelief, setting something down hard on his desk. Whatever he was doing, it required all of his concentration. “Did you try jiggling the handle?”

“I tried jiggling it, holding it down, _everything_ ,” Oswald protested. “It won’t budge.”

“Well, what did you put down it?” Edward replied, his timing so apt that Oswald, in a better mood, might have laughed. He sounded agitated.

“Let’s just say your magic pills for the infection didn’t agree with me,” Oswald snapped. “At this rate, I’d rather you kept giving me shots. I can put the pain in a _whole_ new context.”

Edward hung up on him in the midst of starting to speak to someone else. That explained a lot.

Oswald’s stomach growled, so he slipped the phone in the pocket of Edward’s robe and went back to the kitchen. Edward had a loaf of bread on the sideboard, as well as lettuce and cheddar in the refrigerator.

Oswald took out the cheese and greens, setting them next to the bread. Edward had used some of the spicy mustard the day before on the herbed scrambled eggs, and it had worked a treat.

Shuffling through the jumble of jars, Oswald frowned. He couldn’t find it. Perhaps Edward was the type to take condiments from home to work. Either way, he wasn’t pleased.

Unpocketing the phone, Oswald hit redial a second time. He was still offended at the fact that Edward had hung up on him. Co-worker or no co-worker, it was bad manners.

Sounding even wearier than before, Edward answered almost right away. “ _Yes_.”

“Where is the spicy mustard?” Oswald asked, continuing to rummage. “You better not have finished it,” he warned, eyes lighting up as he located it near the back. “Never mind!”

Audibly furious, Edward breathed out through his nose. “You’ll make yourself sick agai—”

Oswald hung up and dropped the phone back in his pocket, determined to make a sandwich.

Over some frustrating talk-shows and questionable cartoons, Oswald ate his brunch—well, by then it was _lunch_ —without further incident. After piling his dishes in the sink, he suffered a mild attack of guilt that drove him back to the bathroom to argue with the toilet some more. Fifteen minutes, the plunger from beneath Edward’s sink, and a ton of persuasive jiggling later, Oswald got the ridiculous contraption to flush.

Feeling productive, Oswald took another dose of antibiotics before lying down for a nap. He hugged the spare pillow drowsily, breathing in traces of Edward’s scent. _I want you so much_ , he thought. _Want you and don’t know what to do with you._

He woke up a few hours later feeling woozy, but he didn’t throw up again. Deciding that was an excellent sign of his overall recovery, he dialed Gabriel’s cell number from memory and took acute satisfaction in the astonishment that met his ears. Where had he been _hiding_ all this time?

Oswald gave him Edward’s address, urging him to tell no one and await further orders. On hanging up, Oswald realized that it was nearly six o’clock, and there’d been no sign of Edward.

The phone rang in his hand, startling him so badly he almost dropped it.

“Hello?” he asked, answering it immediately. “Ed, is that you? I fixed the toilet, and—”

“Work’s not going great,” Edward said urgently. “They have me researching all this malarkey about murderous self-mortifying monks, and…we _sort_ of have a problem.” He took a ragged breath, as if he regretted what he was about to say. “I need you to dispose of a certain possession I’ve retained formerly belonging to…you know who.”

The implications of Edward’s statement lit up every anger-center in Oswald’s psyche. He got off the sofa and paced to the middle of the floor, sucking in his breath at the pain in his shoulder.

“Why did you keep her glasses to begin with?” he demanded, tucking his right hand beneath his left arm, taking off some of the strain. Maybe it would help if he had a sling.

“I _told_ you,” Edward huffed. “I like to keep something. You know, a…reminder. The badge, the pocketknife? I showed you those, too.” He took another impatient breath. “Just…get rid of them. The badge and the glasses, anyway. Dr. Thompkins is suspicious.”

“You severely underestimate my present level of motivation re: leaving the house,” Oswald told him angrily. “However, seeing as my fate _also_ hangs in the balance, I’ll consider your request,” he added, pointedly hanging up. “Amateurs.”

He threw the phone down on the sofa, unable to move from the spot, clutching his right arm to his chest. He wished that Edward would come home so that they’d have a shot at solving this together, so that he could nip Edward’s impulsiveness in the bud. He _wished_ …

Miss Kringle’s glasses were on the nightstand, exactly where Edward had left them.

Oswald picked them up, a wave of resentment filling him. Why Edward had meddled in the affairs of a hapless civilian was anyone’s guess. Loneliness. Need for connection, desire to _share_ —

 _Yes_ , Oswald thought, closing his fingers around them. _In spite of everything, I understand._

An abrupt fit of knocking shattered his reverie. He wandered over to answer it, fully expecting Edward. He’d greet him with a kiss, perhaps, by way of apology. Tug him over to the bed, lie back, let him do whatever he pleased. Shivering, Oswald opened the door.

Gabriel stood there looking simultaneously contrite and disgruntled. It was a relief to see him.

“Gabe, when I gave you this address,” Oswald said, smiling thinly, “I was not inviting pop-ins.”

“Galavan’s been let go,” said Gabriel, without preamble, as if delivering news of a family death.

Oswald didn’t realize he’d shattered Miss Kringle’s glasses until he felt glass dig into his palm.

“Where _is_ he?” he seethed, the pain in his shoulder entirely forgotten. He struggled to keep both the shards and the frame in his hand, bringing them up to cradle against his chest.

“Warehouse on the docks, boss,” said Gabriel, eager to be of service. “I had guys tailin’ him all this time. I knew you’d turn up eventually.”

“While your faith in me is touching,” said Oswald, gesturing at himself with his free hand, “how am I supposed to go out looking like _this_?”

Gabriel fetched something from the floor. On glancing down, it turned out to be a black garment bag he’d evidently propped there while waiting for Oswald to answer the door.

“You said earlier on the phone you didn’t have nothin’ of your own here,” he explained, offering the bag to Oswald, “so I brought this. You're lookin’ kinda skinny, boss. Hope it fits.”

Oswald wasted no time in thanking him, inviting him inside, and getting down to business fishing Officer Dougherty’s badge out of the drawer. He snagged the hunter’s pocketknife as an afterthought, knowing Edward would be annoyed with him.

Gabriel watched in confusion as Oswald batched these items, together with the destroyed glasses, into a Ziploc freezer bag. Next, Oswald studied the fur-trimmed overcoat, admiring the black-and-purple panels, and stuffed the bag in one of its pockets.

“It ain’t that cold out,” Gabriel said helpfully. “One less thing to get dirty down at the docks?”

Oswald nodded, draping the coat over the back of Edward’s armchair. “Give me your phone.”

Gabriel handed it over with reluctance, watching Oswald flip it open and add Edward’s number to the address book.

Oswald hit _SEND_ , bringing the phone up to his ear.

“Oswald?” Edward answered, background noise suggesting a scramble to put something down.

“Gabe’s here. The colleague I told you about, remember?” Oswald said. “I need to go out.” He bit his lip, thinking for a second. “I’m sorry about earlier. We’re even on the hang-ups.”

“Please, no,” Edward begged, ignoring the apology. “You’re not in any condition to do that.”

“Needs must, Ed,” Oswald told him. “I’m taking your spare keys. I promise I’ll see you later.” He hung up before Edward could prevail upon him with anything more guilt-inducing than he already had. Even as briefly as they’d spoken, he’d sounded frantic.

Once Gabriel had helped Oswald finish dressing, they went out into the subdued chill of evening.

Oswald kept Gabriel’s phone in his lap for the duration of the ride, convinced that Edward would call back. He didn’t know what to make of the fact that, by the time they arrived, he hadn’t.

On their approach to the warehouse’s entrance, sounds of a scuffle quickly became evident.

“Go on ahead, Gabe,” Oswald told Gabriel, handing over his shotgun from the trunk. “That might be overkill, but two guns are better than one, don’t you think? Clear the way.”

“Like you say, boss,” said Gabriel, marching fearlessly ahead, vanishing through the doorframe.

Several gunshots later, Oswald steeled himself and strode into the rust-and-brine thick of things.

Just beyond where Gabriel, firearms in hand, had stationed himself next to the door, a bloodied Jim Gordon lay panting on the grit-strewn floor.

Ignoring a wave of nausea and pain, Oswald stalked over to him. He grabbed Jim’s collar, heedless of the cuts on his face.

“Hello, Jim,” Oswald sneered, shaking him roughly. “Lucky for you, Gabe had people following Galavan. Now, where is he?” When Jim didn’t respond, beginning to lose consciousness, Oswald shook him again. “Where’s Galavan?” he demanded, his fury rising. “ _Tell_ me! Where…is…Galavan?” he demanded, punctuating each word with a slap.

“No offense, but you might wanna cut that out,” Gabriel interjected. “He’s our only witness.”

Oswald dropped Jim, by now fully unconscious, back on the floor. He straightened his jacket.

“You're right, Gabe,” he said reasonably, sniffing to regain his composure. “And we're going to take Sleeping Beauty here back to Ed's place until he decides to wake up.”

“Hate to break it to you, but your new... _associate_ might not appreciate that,” Gabriel said.

“Then I'll just have to make it up to him,” replied Oswald. “Get our old friend in the car, please.”

Manhandling an unconscious Jim Gordon up to Edward’s front door was a challenge, but Gabriel was, as usual, up for it.

Oswald slotted Edward’s key into the lock, his heart in his throat.

Edward, tense on the sofa with the _Gazette_ and a pen in hand, immediately got to his feet.

“You can’t,” he began, goggling as Gabriel offloaded Jim on the bed, “can’t do that, Oswald is—”

“That will be all for tonight, Gabe,” said Oswald, giving back his phone, ushering him to the door.

Edward stood staring as Oswald brusquely locked the apartment, eyes darting nervously toward Jim.

Oswald hobbled over and took Edward reassuringly by the wrist, dragging him to the bathroom. Once he’d shut and locked the creaky door behind them, kissing Edward up against the wall was no hardship. Edward hunched forward instinctively, lessening the strain on Oswald’s leg.

“But—but where are we supposed to sleep?” blurted Edward, as Oswald loosened Edward’s tie.

“The sofa,” Oswald replied, nuzzling Edward’s neck as he unbuttoned his shirt. “We’ll make do.”

“I don’t…” Edward’s eyelashes fluttered as he watched Oswald get down on his knees. “You…look nice,” he managed, touching Oswald’s cheek. “Where did you get…”

“The way I see it,” Oswald said, untucking Edward’s shirt before unfastening his trousers, “you’ve had a rougher day than I have.” He tugged Edward’s trousers down to mid-thigh, caressing Edward’s hips as he tongued him gently through his underwear. “ _Hmmm_?”

Edward gasped, fingers in Oswald’s hair, knees buckling as he nodded faintly down at Oswald.

Oswald wrapped his arms around Edward’s waist, breathing in the heady, familiar scent of him.

“Then why don’t I run us a nice, hot shower,” he said, tipping his chin up, “and make it better?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Edward woke up with a crick in his neck, slumped in an uncomfortable sitting position on the sofa with Oswald snoring against his shoulder. He tightened his arms around Oswald, drawing his legs up, twisting sideways to fully appreciate Oswald’s warmth.

“G’morning, handsome,” Oswald mumbled, kissing Edward’s neck, making them both shiver.

“Wish we’d been able to put on different clothes last night,” Edward muttered into Oswald’s hair.

“Aren’t you a charmer,” Oswald replied, lifting his head to peer at Edward. “What time is it?”

“About seven thirty,” Edward said, leaning in to kiss him, slow and appreciative. “Give or take.”

“You’ll be late for work,” mumbled Oswald, kissing him back with fervor. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Edward said, brushing his thumbs across Oswald’s cheeks. “I stayed late yesterday, so I can go in late today,” he said. “It means you won’t have to deal with Jim alone.”

“I’d have my way with you right now,” Oswald sighed, “if there wasn’t a risk of him waking.”

Edward kissed Oswald’s cheek and clung to him, feeling petulant. “Why is he _here_?”

“Because he’s my best shot at tracking Galavan,” Oswald said. “Don’t you think it’s time he got up?”

“Yes,” said Edward, liking the idea of having his bed back, given they’d only made pleasurable use of it once. After that spectacularly unexpected shower, he wanted to cater to Oswald’s comfort as much as possible. “But don’t expect me to offer him a cup of coffee.”

“Of course not,” Oswald said, kissing the corner of Edward’s mouth. “I was thinking of something more jarring than that. I could do with a vocal warm-up, couldn’t you?”

Edward instantly took Oswald’s meaning and got to his feet, dragging Oswald to the keyboard.

“I love…the way your mind works,” he gushed, taking a seat, successfully suppressing the urge to end his utterance with _you_. “Same key as before? Down a half-step? Options.”

“Stick with what we know,” said Oswald, squeezing Edward’s shoulder. “On one, two, _three_ —

One sing-through was sufficient to penetrate their unwelcome guest’s R.E.M. cycle. As they wound to a close on Oswald’s favorite line— _for my mother looks over me_ —they burst into conspiratorial laughter. Edward landed the final chord with a flourish.

The mattress behind them creaked, accompanied by Jim’s confused groan. “What the hell?”

Edward turned, elbows poised on the back of his chair, watching with smug anticipation as Oswald hobbled over to stand in front of Jim. This would be worth the price of admission.

“At last!” exclaimed Oswald, jovially, shoving his hands in his pockets. “How are you feeling?”

“Not so good,” Jim admitted, squinting at Oswald before leaning to peer at Edward. “Nygma?”

Edward leaned, too, his grin falsely bright. “Hi,” he said, exactingly mirroring Oswald’s cheer.

Oswald shot Edward an affectionate glance over his shoulder, turning immediately back to Jim.

“Long story,” he said by way of explanation, leaning forward into Jim’s space. “He’s a friend.”

 _Friend?_ echoed Edward’s mirror-voice. _Is that what they’re calling it these days? A couple of heart-pounding trysts, and that’s your thanks?_

 _Let it go_ , yawned Kristen, bored. _At least it’ll keep him away from hapless girls._

Edward squeezed his eyes shut, blinking rapidly. He hadn’t even deprived himself of much sleep.

Jim rolled his eyes in disgust, fussing at some unseen injury at the back of his head. “A friend?”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Oswald replied with sarcasm, placing his hand pointedly on his hip. “No thanks needed, saving your life and all.”

Jim nodded in grudging acknowledgment, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah,” he grunted. “Thanks, I guess.”

Oswald bent lower, peering until Jim met Oswald’s eyes. “No, really. What are friends for?”

 _For fucking, clearly,_ scoffed Edward’s mirror-voice. _Slam, bam, thank you—_

 _You’re so goddamn crude_ , Kristen snapped. _Leave him alone with his guilt!_

Edward got up, turning toward the window while he wrung his hands. “Stop it,” he hissed.

“You got beat pretty bad,” said Oswald, with false sympathy. “That Galavan is a pistol, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is,” Jim agreed, watching warily as Edward finally wandered over to flank Oswald.

“Oh, you're free to go, of course, Jim,” said Oswald. “Desperate fugitive from the law though you be. But, I beg of you, sit and consider,” he went on, following Jim to the far side of the room. “You and I share a bond in Theo Galavan. A passion, if you will. If there was ever a time for us to work together—” he nodded emphatically, a proposal “—now is that time.”

“Fine,” Jim said, sitting on the far side of the bed. “Get over here, Ed. This concerns you, too.”

“Oh,” Edward said, trailing after Oswald, stepping so close their arms brushed. “Yes, of course.”

Oswald slid a possessive arm around Edward, sending Edward’s heart hammering into his throat.

“Seeing as we must use Edward’s residence as our base of operations,” he said, “I would ask that you be mindful of your behavior while in this space. What you see here, stays here.”

Jim nodded slowly, running his tongue over his teeth, pretending to understand what that meant.

“That goes without saying,” he agreed. “I’m a fugitive from the law. I don’t get to be picky.”

“It means you’ll sleep on the sofa,” Edward added snippily. “And keep your mouth shut.”

Jim nodded at Edward as if he still _totally_ didn’t get it. “Uh, okay. Next condition?”

“I will shortly summon Gabe and the rest of my crew,” Oswald continued. “There will be firearms. _Lots_ of them, mostly illegal. I assume you won’t have a problem with that?”

“Yeah, no,” Jim replied, eyes finally snagging on Oswald’s fingers curled around Edward’s hip.

“Once we have assessed the situation using Gabe’s intel,” Oswald went on, “we will strike out from here and launch our siege on Galavan Tower. There’s no doubt in my mind he’s gone home.”

“That sounds very dangerous,” Edward remarked, turning to Oswald. “What can I do to help?”

“Excuse me for a moment,” Oswald said to Jim, taking Edward aside, guiding him to the door. “Ed,” he said softly, taking both of Edward’s hands. “I need you to go to work.”

Edward frowned at him. “But you’re about to launch an offensive against the man who took your mother’s _life_!” he protested, suddenly furious. “I want to support—”

“Please, _please_ hear me out,” Oswald begged. “I need you on-site at the GCPD,” he continued. “I need you to text me with any significant developments. Your role is crucial.”

Edward swallowed hard, nodding in sheer relief. “Oh, I hadn’t thought…” He side-stepped Oswald and opened the nightstand drawer, pulling out his favorite pair of gloves. “In case you’re out late,” he said, pressing the gloves into Oswald’s hands. “They’ll match your tie.”

The sound of Jim clearing his throat made Edward startle. He glanced past Oswald to find the detective had adamantly turned his back. Let it not be said that Jim couldn’t follow instructions.

The press of Oswald’s lips against the back of Edward’s hand soothed the jolt right out of him.

“You know Gabe’s number,” he said, breathless at the brush of Edward’s thumb along his jaw.

“I’ll let you know if anything important happens,” Edward said with resolve. “I’ll come home when there’s nothing else useful for me to observe. I’ll wait for you here,” he vowed.

Oswald’s eyes widened as Edward’s hand dropped back to Edward’s side, seemingly at a loss.

“Your jacket’s still hanging on the hook in the bathroom,” he said, straightening Edward’s tie.

“I know,” Edward said, using the proximity as an excuse to kiss Oswald for all he was worth.

He fetched his jacket and left, fielding another astonished glance from Jim on his way out. How much Jim had seen was anyone’s guess, but he couldn’t help but take vindictive satisfaction in the knowledge that Jim couldn’t fathom his connection to Oswald.

At work, Edward spent a good six to seven hours dithering over inane details relating to the Order of St. Dumas file. He spent as much time as possible at the microfilm desk a level above the station floor, catching difficult-to-read glances from Leslie every time she passed.

Around four o’clock, on his way toward the stairs with folder in hand, a commotion just ahead stopped him dead in his tracks. He pretended to be intent on the file, listening in.

“Galavan is innocent until proven otherwise,” Captain Barnes ranted on, gesturing at an unhappy-looking Leslie. “If Jim isn't dirty, I need to hear that from him. Where is he? Do _you_ know where he is?”

“No!” Leslie protested, sounding rightfully stand-offish. Edward almost felt sorry for her.

“Do you know how long he's been working with Penguin?” Barnes asked curtly.

Edward had to swallow a laugh at the unwitting appropriateness of the question.

“He's not working with Penguin!” Leslie snapped, growing increasingly more agitated. “And he's not dirty. _And_ I resent being questioned like this.”

Edward stepped closer, flipping a few pages in the file, angling himself toward Leslie. Her growing suspicion about Kristen aside, Edward decided, objectively, that he _did_ feel sorry for her. Being separated from Oswald, even temporarily, was torture enough.

Fortuitously, he also saw a prime opportunity to kill Leslie’s budding suspicion in its cradle.

“Stop it,” Barnes insisted. “You’re his girlfriend. You know I have to ask you these questions. I’m going to ask you again if you know where he is, because if you do, and you don’t tell me, that makes you an accomplice after the fact.”

“I don’t know where he is,” Leslie replied, raising her voice, her hands spread in desperation.

“I don't like this any more than you do,” said Barnes, sighing. “Jim is like a son to me.”

“A father would have shown more faith,” Leslie retorted, and Edward wanted to cheer for her.

“Are you sure you know Jim as well as you think you do?” Barnes asked before sauntering away.

Edward took the opportunity to approach Leslie from behind, leaning slightly over her shoulder.

“Is your lover-man alive?” intoned Edward, improvising, struck by the irony of their lovers occupying the same location. “Go to Grundy, 8:05.”

He walked away, leaving Leslie staring after him in bafflement. He hoped she’d understand _8:05_ as a necessary, obfuscating permutation of _805_ , but it was out of his hands. He fled to his laboratory desk off the M.E.’s corridor, hurriedly pulling out his phone.

 _Everyone’s looking for Jim_ , he typed. _Esp. Barnes. Informed LT of whereabouts._

 _You did what?_ came Oswald’s curt, potentially incensed response a minute later.

 _Told Lee where Jim is_ , Edward clarified. _I had to. Now she’ll trust me again._

 _Fair_ , Oswald wrote back. _Did you give it to her straight up, or was it a riddle?_

 _You know me so well_ , Edward responded, smiling to himself. _She may not show_.

 _I’ll be ready_ , read Oswald’s next text. _Thank you for the warning. Anything else?_

 _I think I’m in love with you_ , Edward wanted to say, but he typed something informative instead.

_Things are heating up around here, so I’ll go back out on the floor. Be safe._

_Safety not guaranteed_ , Oswald replied, _but, my dearest Ed, please do the same._

Edward blinked at the message for a full thirty seconds before snapping his phone shut. Finding the St. Dumas file a lost cause, Edward snipped out the _Gazette_ crossword he’d begun at home the evening before. He slid it onto a clipboard of week-old data logs.

Back out on the floor, he wandered as inconspicuously as he could. When Barnes started tossing him strange looks, he retreated back up the stairs to the microfilm desk. Thirty-two minutes later, another loud-voiced exchange broke out below. Edward got up, clipboard in hand, and made his way back to where the detectives’ desks were clustered.

“You hang tight,” Barnes was saying to a disgruntled Harvey Bullock, a soaking-wet Alfred Pennyworth, and a smartly-dressed gentleman that Edward didn’t recognize. “We'll dig up some health and safety issue, get a backdoor warrant for Galavan Tower.”

“Right,” retorted Pennyworth, sarcastically. “So how long is _that_ going to take, then?”

“Well, probably till tomorrow morning,” Barnes explained. “That's the best we can do.” He frowned. “Oh. You’re free to go. We’ll drop your charges,” he added before walking away.

“ _Right_ ,” Pennyworth said, bloodied and weary. “Thank you very much indeed.”

Edward met Barnes’s inscrutable glance as the man whisked right past him, doing an unintentional turn on the balls of his feet. Dizzy, he fixed his attention back on the butler.

“Look, Bullock,” said Pennyworth. “I’m going to need some clean bandages,” he said sternly. “I’m going to need a car...and a couple of guns.”

Harvey, bless his bumbling heart, donned the kind of soulful look usually reserved for Jim.

“You got it,” he said, entirely in earnest, clapping the butler on his dirt-smudged shoulder.

“What are you going to do?” said the well-dressed stranger, focusing worriedly on Pennyworth.

“I've got no choice,” Pennyworth replied, intensity returned. “No time. I've got to go visiting.”

“I'll come with you,” Harvey insisted.

Edward was tempted to sneak around behind him, tap him on the shoulder, and regretfully inform him that he was, indeed, the third wheel.

“Are two men enough?” asked the stranger. “It wouldn't seem so, but violence is not my _métier_.”

“No, two men are _not_ enough,” replied Harvey, sounding genuinely disheartened.

“I would gladly join you, but I imagine an amateur is no asset,” said the stranger. “A hindrance, perhaps.”

“That's very true,” Pennyworth said. “We need Jim Gordon. He's perfect for this kind of thing. Where is he?”

“Yeah, where _is_ Jim Gordon?” Harvey echoed. “It's a long story, but nobody knows.”

Edward couldn’t stand the multivalent hilarity of the situation for much longer. Tapping his pen against his lips, he laughed for the first time since his and Oswald’s prank on Jim that morning.

“Something funny, Ed?” Harvey demanded, tone disdainful, unnecessarily raising his voice.

Before Edward knew it, he was surrounded by the three men on whom he’d been eavesdropping.

“Do you know where Gordon is?” said Pennyworth. “Do you? Start speaking, Windows.”

Frozen with anxiety, Edward, recognizing the petty insult for what it was, just stared them.

“A diamond plate, a glowing grate, a place you never leave,” he blurted. “Where am I?”

“What?” said Pennyworth, disappointingly obtuse for the mastermind behind Wayne Manor.

“Home,” said the stranger, eyes narrowing. “Whose home? _Your_ home? Gordon's at your home?”

Edward, still motionless on the spot, was nonetheless so impressed that he couldn't even think.

“No. Yes,” he babbled, returning the stranger's steady, unblinking stare. “ _Who_ are you?”

“Lucius Fox of Wayne Industries,” replied the stranger. “So what you're saying is, if we go to your place, we'll find Jim? Can you take us there?”

“Yes, you'll find him,” Edward said. “No, I can't. I promised Os—” he pretended to cough, rubbing at his throat “—promised _all_ parties involved I'd stay out of it. The matter's important; I was glad to be of service by letting them use my place. 805 Grundy. I have to go.”

Cursing himself wildly the whole way, Edward took refuge in the deserted autopsy lab. He fumbled his phone out of his pocket, hands shaking so badly that he almost dropped it.

 _Code red_ , he typed. _Bullock, Pennyworth, and somebody named Fox forced me to tell them where Jim was. I'm afraid they're on their way._

 _How did they know to threaten you?_ Oswald replied. _They'll answer for it._

 _Bullock must've overheard when I spoke to Lee_ , Edward lied, ashamed of the truth.

 _I have sufficient help on hand that they won't get far_ , Oswald reassured him.

 _Let me come home,_ Edward typed back. _Please. I want to help you._

 _Jim tells me you need to stay where you are until Barnes vacates the premises_ , Oswald answered several minutes later. _As long as Barnes is there, trouble is a possibility._

 _No kidding_ , Edward responded. _Both times I overheard relevant conversations, he was involved. Belligerently so. He has a warrant for Jim's arrest, and he's looking into a backdoor warrant so he can search Galavan Tower tomorrow morning._

 _Joke's on him_ , Oswald wrote back. _We will have taken care of it by then._

Edward chewed his lip, setting his clipboard aside on the autopsy table. He was exhausted.

 _I'll stay here until Barnes leaves_ , he typed, _but the second he's gone, I'm gone, too._

Several minutes passed without a response, during which time Edward retrieved his clipboard and headed back to his office. His stomach tied itself in knots as he finished off the crossword, furtively glancing at the clock. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, _twenty_.

His phone finally buzzed, causing him to jump. His favorite pen went clattering to the floor.

 _What a curious turn of events_ , read Oswald's text. _They're coming with us._

 _Glad to know I sent reinforcements_ , Edward typed. _Are you setting out?_

 _Yes_ , Oswald replied. _Any minute now. Updates on your situation? Barnes?_

Edward leapt up from his desk as swiftly as he could, dashing out into the hall and onto the main floor, leaving his clipboard behind. A rushed circuit of the station—up Escher-esque staircases and down them again—turned up no sign of the captain. He rushed to the windows of Barnes's office, peering through the blinds. It was empty, the lights turned out.

 _I think he's gone_ , Edward typed, hopeful. _I'm coming. Don't leave without me._

The response didn't arrive until ten minutes later when Edward was sitting in traffic, cursing his luck. He fumbled his phone open in his lap, willing the light to stay red a moment longer.

 _Alas, we've already gone_ , it said. _I'd like nothing better than to come home to you._

 _Then come back to me, Oswald,_ Edward typed, eyes stinging. _Come back to me safe_.

It took him another ten minutes to get home, by which point a lack of further responses had done little to calm him. He found his apartment in shambles, the sofa covered in spare combat gear. Errant coffee mugs and loose bullets were scattered across every available surface.

 _Bullet_ , thought Edward, kicking off his shoes, and raced over to the medical trolley.

 _Your other treasures are gone,_ said his mirror-voice. _He's too smart to let you keep them_.

Plastic cup rattling in his hand, Edward raced around the opposite side of the bed and dug in the nightstand drawer. Not only were Kristen's glasses missing, but so were the badge and the knife.

 _Parting is such sweet sorrow_ , Kristen sighed, _but anyone can see you've moved on._

Edward slammed the drawer shut and sat down on the edge of the bed, tipping the bullet he'd extracted from Oswald into his hand. Still smooth and shining, covered in traces of blood.

He kissed it and slipped it in his breast pocket, crawling across the mattress. He rummaged on the top tier of the trolley until he came up with one of the spare syringes of midazolam.

 _You're not romantic_ , his mirror-voice told him in disdain. _You're hopeless._

 _Tell him not to do anything stupid_ , Kristen parried. _You remember how to do that, right?_

“If putting myself to sleep for a few hours so I don't have to listen to your _yammering_ is stupid,” Edward seethed, plunging the needle into his thigh, “then I don't know what...”

He managed to pull the syringe free of his flesh and let it fall to the floor, but just barely.

 _Home at Grundy 805_ , Kristen sing-songed wistfully. _Is your lover-man alive?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Given Oswald's mounting fatigue, positioning the umbrella just _so_ took quite a bit more effort than he'd expected. He wanted to shove it down at least another inch, but his shoulder seared in pain at the slightest attempt.

“Oh,” Jim remarked grimly, still standing next to the car. “I almost forgot you were injured.”

“A little help?” Oswald asked, gesturing at Galavan. “The sooner this is done, the sooner we can leave.”

“ _We_?” Jim echoed, squinting at Oswald in the glow of city lights reflected off the water.

“Well, of course,” said Oswald, chuckling at him. “How else did you think I was getting home?”

“Last time I checked, you don't exactly have a home,” Jim pointed out. “Ed's harboring you.”

“Did you miss something when I explained this?” Oswald snapped, giving the umbrella another fruitless shove. “For the time being, I _live_ with Ed.”

“For the time being,” Jim echoed. “Right,” he sighed, coming over to stand next to Oswald. “You might wanna stand back, okay?”

“Jim, you're an officer and a gentleman,” said Oswald, beaming at him. “Excuse me. A _detective_ and a gentleman.”

“Give me your handkerchief,” Jim said, holding out his hand. “I'm not gonna touch it directly.”

“Whatever you wish,” Oswald said, rummaging in his overcoat pockets. He was able to mask his surprise when he felt the Ziploc bag of Edward's evidence. He re-tasked his free hand to fishing through his suit-jacket pockets, producing the desired item. “Here,” he said.

Jim snatched it from him and didn't waste any time in using it to grasp the umbrella's handle.

While he was busy giving the umbrella a series of impressive shoves, Oswald dashed down to the edge of the river. He threw the badge as far as he could manage, followed by the pocketknife and Miss Kringle's empty frames.

 _Good riddance_ , he thought, dumping the glass-shards in the shallows. _Rest in pieces_.

“That's the best I can do,” Jim said, sounding rather winded. “Oswald? What the hell are you doing?”

Oswald turned, showing Jim the empty Ziploc. “I had a snack in my pocket. It went bad,” he said, shoving the plastic back whence it had come.

“Stop messing around and get over here,” Jim said, gesturing at his handiwork. “Satisfied?”

Oswald stepped close to Galavan's inert form, examining the embedded umbrella's jaunty angle.

“That will do quite nicely,” Oswald told Jim, limping over to him with a gloved hand extended.

“Don't push your luck,” Jim sighed, shaking it reluctantly. “Get in the car. I'll take you back.”

Oswald was grateful that Jim didn't have any commentary to offer on their ride back into the city, not least because he wasn't sure Jim had grasped the full implications of his relationship with Edward. Perhaps it was just as well, because Oswald had only just teased them out himself.

“Do me a favor and stay out of trouble,” Jim sighed as Oswald got out of the car. “Just recover.”

“You won't be hearing from me unless it's absolutely necessary,” Oswald agreed. “Rest assured.”

When Edward didn't answer the buzzer, Oswald took the elevator upstairs and used the spare key.

The lights were still on, and the apartment was the same mess that Oswald had left it. New, however, was the combination of a syringe on the floor and Edward curled sideways on the bed.

“No,” Oswald said, racing to Edward's side, climbing onto the mattress. “Ed, _what_ did you—”

“Only took half,” Edward mumbled as Oswald cradled him, hands on his cheeks. “Needed sleep.”

“Ed,” Oswald breathed, eyes stinging in relief, kissing Edward's forehead. “ _Ed_. Everything's all right, I didn't mean to make you think—”

“You're alive,” Edward breathed, opening his eyes wider, swallowing hard. “All that excitement and...all of my mistakes aside, how was your night?”

“I avenged my mother's death,” said Oswald, smiling through his tears, triumphant. “I beat Theo Galavan and made Jim shove my umbrella down his throat.” He shifted on the mattress, his leg and his shoulder aching, caressing Edward's cheek with his green-gloved hand. “I also threw those glasses in the river. The other things, too. You don't need to worry anymore.”

“Not this,” said Edward, fumbling in his breast pocket. He held up something that glinted under the light, pantomiming its penetration of Oswald's shoulder when Oswald blinked in confusion.

“The sniper's bullet,” Oswald said, taking it out of his hand in dismay. “You kept it? Why?”

“ _Because_ , Oswald,” Edward replied, attempting to pull away. “I don't deserve you, so my plan was to hang onto that instead.”

“ _Au contraire_ ,” Oswald murmured, holding him tightly. “We all deserve what we get.”

They kissed for a long, lazy while until the sound of the bullet rolling onto the floor startled them.

Oswald peeled off Edward's gloves and discarded them, apologetically disengaging so that he could remove his shoes. He was achingly hard, and, from the feel of it, so was Edward.

Edward sat up beside him—hazy, but definitely awake—fingering the fur trim of Oswald's coat.

“I made a mistake,” he murmured, tugging Oswald forward, “when I said you looked nice.”

“Oh?” Oswald scoffed, removing Edward's glasses in retaliation. “How do I look _now_?”

“Same as before,” Edward said, chewing his lip, pulling Oswald on top of him. “Beautiful.”

“Keep this up,” said Oswald, tapping at Edward's hip until he got the message and scooted up to join Oswald against the pillows, “and we'll ruin my only set of good clothes.”

“Pity,” Edward breathed against Oswald's ear, tugging Oswald's hand between his legs. “I'd kind of hoped you might, I don't know, _want_ to.”

Oswald sucked in his breath, unfastening Edward's trousers with care. He slipped his hand inside, rubbing gently, his pulse stuttering as Edward moaned and pressed against his palm.

“So sensitive,” he murmured, kissing Edward on the cheek, working his hand beneath the waistband of Edward's underwear. “You're not going to last a minute, are you?”

Panting, Edward shook his head, twining his fingers in the fur of Oswald's coat. “Doubt it.”

Oswald stopped what he was doing just long enough to encourage Edward's clumsy efforts at getting _his_ trousers open. He sighed when Edward's fingers found him.

“What can I do for you?” he asked softly, arching into the touch. “This is—oh, _Ed_ —”

“I'll buy you new clothes,” Edward mumbled, pulling Oswald back against him, sighing happily at the slight amount of skin-to-skin contact their unfastened clothing permitted. “ _Oh_.”

“If this is some kind of kink,” Oswald promised, pinning Edward flat on his back, grinding against him without mercy, “I _will_ use it against you. You can't— _ah_ , afford—”

“You'd be surprised what I can afford,” Edward gritted out, eyes sliding shut. “ _Oswald_.”

Embarrassing, to think that the sound of his name on Edward's lips was sufficient to send him shuddering into orgasm several seconds before Edward, straining beneath him, gave in.

“If not a new wardrobe,” said Oswald, hoarsely, uncertain which one of them had made the most noise, “then certainly our dry cleaning.” He brushed at the corners of Edward's eyes. “Ed?”

“I'm sorry,” Edward hiccupped, panting harshly as Oswald kissed his temple. “I can't breathe.”

“You're overheated,” Oswald said, wincing as he rocked back onto his knees, impressed at the damage they'd done on both sides. “Let's get out of these,” he said, shedding his coat, miraculously unscathed, on the floor. “No, stay put. You've waited on me enough.”

Edward let Oswald strip him with a minimum of fuss, intervening only when he decided he was breathing well enough to want a kiss every time Oswald removed another article. He lay still while Oswald located the cleansing wipes, flinching at the cool sensation against his belly.

“Take yours off,” he yawned, propping himself up on his elbows while Oswald scrubbed himself in distaste. “I want to see you before I fall asleep.”

Oswald pitched the used wipes in Edward's bedside trash, discarding his jacket, tie, cufflinks, shirt, trousers, and the rest with as little ceremony as he had his coat. He climbed back into bed next to Edward, wincing at the pressure it put on his knee.

Edward pressed his hand against Oswald's bandages once they'd found a comfortable position, stroking absently over the spot where the bullet had entered. He kissed it, closing his eyes.

Oswald tucked his chin over the top of Edward's head, exhaling as exhaustion rolled him under.

However many hours later a knock sounded at Edward's door, it was far too few. Oswald yawned, shushing Edward's panicked, half-asleep whimper. He disentangled himself from Edward and got out of bed, rummaging in the dresser until he came up with a clean robe.

Oswald wrapped himself in it on the way to the door, yawning as he belted it tightly. If Gabriel was foolish enough to come knocking before a civilized hour, then he deserved the eyeful.

“Now is really _not_ the time, I just thought I'd mention that,” he said, opening the door.

“Yeah, I...” Jim Gordon looked Oswald up and down, screwing his eyes shut. “Kinda get that.”

Instantly wide awake, Oswald floundered for a moment and settled for glaring daggers at him.

“Oswald?” Edward called plaintively, sitting up, covers clutched to his chest. “Who's— _oh_ my.”

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away, muttering what sounded like _fuck my life_.

“You better have come here to collect something you left,” Oswald warned. “Otherwise...”

“Some of the spare ammo belongs to Harv,” Jim explained, turning back with a hand over his mouth. “I told him I'd get it back, but you know what,” he sighed. “I'll just buy him some.”

“Smart, Jim,” Oswald agreed, “because I'm not turning on the lights so you can go hunting.”

“He’s your girl in the war, isn’t he?” Jim asked, tilting his head. “Your obedient housewife who waits patiently at home? He’s a good kid, he’s had a ton of bad luck, and he’s trying to put the pieces back together. Don’t wreck his life any more than you already have.”

“Oh _please_ ,” scoffed Edward, before Oswald could even respond. “What I do with my life is none of your business, Jim.” He leaned forward, breathtaking with his flushed cheeks and uncoiffed hair. “Come back to bed?” he asked, his unfocused eyes fixed on Oswald.

Oswald felt a swell of affection unlike any he’d ever experienced, a sense of protectiveness so great that he knew he’d do anything for this brilliant, ridiculous man. That he'd give him everything, _everything_ and all.

“My love, of course,” he said reassuringly, turning back to Jim. “Go home, Detective. Dr. Thompkins and your unborn child need you.”

Jim nodded and turned on his heel, sighing as he left. Much to his credit, he didn't look back.

Oswald closed the door and limped back to bed. He fell into Edward’s waiting arms as if dreaming, into the soft shiver between them, basking in the somber grey light through Edward’s window. He kissed him, tender and achingly slow.

“Love,” echoed Edward, unsteadily, framing Oswald’s face with both hands. “You called me...”

“I’m sorry for taking such liberties, but—after everything we’ve been through, don’t tell me this is it,” Oswald sighed, stroking Edward’s hair off his forehead. “That it’s back to work at the GCPD for you and—and back to the streets with me, to regroup with those _miserable_ —”

Edward gasped, the shudder of his chest against Oswald’s a gut-punch as they kissed. He clung to Oswald as if to say what he couldn’t get past his lips, begging him not to let go. Such a guileless, unabashed entreaty of devotion was impossible to ignore.

“Are you actually _kidding_?” he asked, in tearful laughter. “I’m yours, Oswald. If you want me. They couldn’t drag me back. Wherever you go, I...” He sobbed, the sound caught between grief and joy. “This might be a bit hasty, but I'm obviously not cut out for the life I'm living. Take me with you?”

“Well,” Oswald said, elatedly, kissing Edward’s forehead to calm him, brushing away his tears, “I can tell you I’m not going anywhere for the time being, seeing as I don’t _have_ anywhere for us to go. Not yet, anyway. I’m working on it.”

“I’m paid up through the next few months, and my savings is decent,” Edward offered. “I’ll put my notice in the mail to Captain Barnes tomorrow.”

“We have much to be grateful for,” said Oswald, somberly. “We should pay my mother a visit soon. Is there a flower shop nearby? She likes lilies, all kinds. Especially Bermudas and Stargazers.”

“Yes, and yes,” Edward agreed, nuzzling Oswald’s ear. “Make love to me again?” he whispered. “I want to get it right.”

“I don’t think we got it wrong,” Oswald whispered back, holding him close, “but all right.”

**Author's Note:**

> This piece has a teensy morning after follow-up ficlet, [_**The Bagman's Gambit**_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12271800).


End file.
